Peanut Butter & Crackers
by klaviher
Summary: In which Phoenix and Kristoph never quite manage to tie up loose ends.


It's been over a decade since Phoenix felt out of place in a prison. He's sat here across from the same ugly glass, marred with scratches and grimy fingerprints more times in his life than he can count, with a hell of a lot more at stake than now. He's won, it's over, and it's taken four months for him to bite the bullet and book a visit. He reasons that he'd bided his time for seven years, and Kristoph could damn well wait four months. The door opens with its familiar jarring bang, and Phoenix's mouth runs dry. Kristoph walks into the room, glaring at the guard as he's manhandled. He's cuffed, and Phoenix can only stare. He looks awful. He's lost weight and his hair is brittle and greasy. _Dry shampoo_ , Phoenix thinks. He can't remember if it's a prohibited item. He swallows in an attempt to wet his mouth and Kristoph sits quietly as his hands are unlocked and the guard takes his post at the door. Kristoph picks up the phone. After a long minute, Phoenix does the same, swallowing. There is a bloated silence.

"Kristoph." Phoenix manages, voice cracking. Two of Kristoph's nails on the hand delicately curled around the phone are broken, and Phoenix stares.

"We don't get nail files around here."

"Oh," Phoenix says dumbly. He falters, and then opens his mouth to speak, but Kristoph beats him to it.

"You look a lot less intimidating when you're clean-shaven. I hope you didn't make the effort just for me."

He means to say something profound, something that will make Kristoph understand how he's feeling even if he himself doesn't. Something that will tie up all the loose ends into a neat knot and both of them can do their own living and dying in peace. There is no bluffing to be done here. No need for one-upping or secrets or keeping a sliver of doubt tucked in the back of your mind, and neither of them knows how to deal with it.

The jig is up, and Phoenix has always been a man of juvenile sincerity, and so he says "I did. Make an effort for you, I mean."

Kristoph doesn't look surprised, but he does look surprisingly tender, and Phoenix feels his heart simultaneously ache and swell, and his hand is shaking around the telephone as he continues, quieter than before, "I always made an effort for you. " He pauses before saying, "I'm nervous."

"We aren't keeping secrets, anymore." Kristoph says, letting out a breath. He hesitates, before adding, "you never trusted me."

"I wanted to."

"I didn't love you."

"You didn't want to."

Kristoph presses his lips together, and Phoenix stares with the searing intensity that never quite managed to coax the truth from him. It doesn't work today either, but Phoenix can't bring himself to care.

"I brought you something," he says, indicating to the guard to take his brown paper bag to Kristoph.

The way in which Kristoph tucks the phone between his shoulder and his ear is almost feminine, and it's so similar to the way he used to answer business calls while making coffee that Phoenix nearly cries. He reaches into the bag and pulls out the small plastic jar.

Neither of them moves.

"Fuck you."

* * *

It's the summer holidays. Phoenix is sprawled miserably over his bed, light streaming in through the shitty curtains tinting everything pink. He gingerly rolls onto his back and feels his face, pain from the split lip and swollen eye mingling with his hangover. The vague sound of Kristoph's voice drifts from the kitchen, and Phoenix's heart sinks as he sits up rapidly to check the clock. One thirty in the afternoon. Groaning, he holds his head in his hands as he hears Trucy's voice, then the click of the front door.

"Great role model," says Kristoph, appearing in the bedroom door, "she's going to the movies."

Phoenix looks wearily at the bedside table, cluttered with empty bottles and fast food wrappers, but no water or painkillers. Kristoph must know what he's looking for, because he snorts and leans on the doorframe, crossing his arms.

"Get it yourself. Am I your boyfriend?"

 _Yes_ , Phoenix thinks, unbidden. He gets out of bed and traipses after Kristoph to the kitchen where the remnants of Trucy's breakfast lay on the counter, fills a reasonably clean looking glass with tap water and takes painkillers from the container by the edge of the sink. Kristoph is holding a mug and leaning against the counter in silence, and watches as Phoenix starts to miserably spread peanut butter on a cracker.

"How was she?" Asks Phoenix, acutely aware of Kristoph's suit, tie knotted carefully and jacket buttons done up.

"She's fine. Wonderful even. I'm sure she wishes she could see more of her father." When Phoenix doesn't react, Kristoph continues, "Clean up your fucking apartment."

He turns away and rinses his mug in the sink, before typing something into his phone, already having vacated the conversation.

"I have a meeting."

And with that, he's gone and Phoenix is left standing in his kitchen with half of a peanut butter covered cracker and a headache. He cleans his apartment though.

* * *

Trucy is awake when he comes home from the club, nose still trickling blood and clothing torn. She takes one look at him and turns on the shower, and when Phoenix comes out of the bathroom, she's left a pile of clean clothes outside the door and Kristoph is in his living room. Trucy gives him a hug that hurts just a little in it's tightness and he buries his face in her hair and aches with how sorry he is. She disappears wordlessly to bed and leaves him alone with Kristoph, who's wearing an expensive winter coat and has neatly braided hair.

"You should see the other guy," Phoenix says weakly, though it isn't funny to him either.

The two of them sit on the threadbare couch and Kristoph slathers peanut butter onto crackers for him and when Phoenix ends up sobbing painfully into Kristoph's shoulder they both ignore the way Kristoph gently wraps his arms around him and presses kisses to his temple.

Early the next morning Phoenix wakes up alone on the couch, and when Trucy wanders out of her room and curls herself under his arm he runs his fingers through her hair and tries to pull himself together.

* * *

Phoenix keeps his apartment cleaner. He makes sure he's up to kiss Trucy goodbye before school and that he's awake when she gets home. He sleeps less, and sits up during the day rifling through handwritten notes and memories and making timelines. Kristoph comes over and compliments the tidiness of his apartment, the fact that he's up before noon. He doesn't mention the way Phoenix seems to harden, the way he no longer softens when Kristoph kisses him. They fuck, and Phoenix is different, detached. The two of them lay in self-loathing afterward, and wordlessly cling together, Phoenix mindlessly tracing patterns with his finger onto Kristoph's chest. That part, at least, is familiar.

On Kristoph's lunch break, they meet at the park, and walk along eating noodles from cardboard cartons. Phoenix is distracted, his mind back at home. He's dishevelled, but his clothes are clean, and despite the bags under his eyes, he looks sharper than Kristoph has seen him in years. It reminds him, that under the bitterness and the childish lack of forgiveness, Phoenix was once the most formidable attorney in the state. They pass a bin, and Kristoph throws out his half empty carton. Usually, this would cause Phoenix to raise an eyebrow, but he's too far inside his own thoughts to notice. Not for the first time, Kristoph tries to imagine Phoenix before all this. He's seen the old videos. He followed the papers religiously following the disbarment. The younger, idealistic Phoenix would have hated Kristoph, and he isn't completely sure that the jaded betrayed one doesn't.

"You're busy lately," says Kristoph.

"I've been trying to figure some things out." Phoenix says, and doesn't elaborate.

Kristoph cancels his afternoon meeting and watches an old trial video. Phoenix is panicky and presents himself terribly, the case teetering until the final verdict. Kristoph thinks back to earlier, and knows Phoenix won't ever go in without all the facts again.

* * *

Kristoph is waiting for him outside the club when he arrives for work. It's a dick move, because he's been avoiding the club all week and Kristoph knows he has no choice but to return and make money sometime. He makes to slip past him into the club and Kristoph grabs his arm, pulling him to the side.

"Cigarette?" He offers, lighting it swiftly when Phoenix takes it wordlessly.

They stand in silence for a moment, and Phoenix stares at the pavement. He's fucking freezing, despite his several layers, and Kristoph knows him well enough to be banking on this.

"Let me buy you a drink," says Kristoph, stubbing out his cigarette on the nearest bin, "You must be freezing."

"A drink." He locks eyes with Kristoph, who stares back, looking equally pissed off. Phoenix breaks eye contact first, dropping his cigarette and grinding it under his heel.

"Dinner."

"I'll take both," says Phoenix, turning and walking toward the bar. As he opens the door, he calls over his shoulder, "you know I'm not a cheap date."

Two drinks and a mediocre meal later, Phoenix is aimlessly tapping at the piano keys, clunking out a melody he couldn't place even if he tried. Kristoph is sitting at the table nearest the piano, looking discomfited, and Phoenix rolls his eyes, playing chopsticks with the grace of a third grader.

"Five hundred dollars." Kristoph says suddenly, standing and pushing in his chair.

"What?" Says Phoenix, clanging both hands down onto the piano aimlessly, and beginning to play the start of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

"I'll give you five hundred if you come home with me."

"I'm working," says Phoenix, clearly playing in the wrong key.

"How much do you usually make here in a night? Not more than five hundred."

"Seven hundred."

"Wright."

"Give me seven hundred and you can even kiss me."

Kristoph narrows his eyes, clearly displeased, but Phoenix knows he's agreed. He kicks the piano stool as he leaves, drawing a glare from the waitress in the corner and waits outside in the freezing cold for Kristoph, who trails out afterward in a bit of a huff and still putting his wallet back into his coat pocket. The two walk to Kristoph's car in silence and Phoenix slides in, purposefully ignoring Kristoph as he buckles his seatbelt.

Wordlessly, Kristoph leans over him and slides a wad of cash into his pocket. He pulls away only slightly, and Phoenix turns to look at him. Kristoph is twisted awkwardly over the gear stick and he looks disgruntled and his hair is the slightest bit too greasy to look good and Phoenix is overwhelmed with a sudden tender feeling and leans in to kiss him softly. He pulls away, eyes closed and leans his forehead against Kristoph's, who remains still. A long moment passes, and Kristoph leans in again, and Phoenix reaches his hands up to cradle his face, fingers running softly over the swell of his cheeks. This time, Kristoph pulls away and leans back into his own seat, looking over at Phoenix with an odd look.

"I hope that was the full seven hundred," says Phoenix, an attempt at a joke, but Kristoph doesn't look away nor does his expression change and as he turns to the steering wheel and starts the ignition Phoenix wishes he'd at least faked a smile.

"The gear stick was uncomfortable." Kristoph says, a little too meaningfully and Phoenix knows he's got at least eight hundred in his pocket.

They drive to Kristoph's house in relative silence, apart from Phoenix turning on the radio several times only to have Kristoph turn it off right after.

At Kristoph's house Phoenix kicks off his shoes and heads into the kitchen, making coffee in a practised manner. He reaches for the sugar and instead brings a mug crashing down to the ground, where it shatters at his feet.

"I moved the mugs." Kristoph calls from the other room.

Phoenix stands still for a moment then, staring at the shards on the ground until the kettle clicks insistently, pulling him out of his thoughts. He carries the coffees - shitty instant with too much milk - into the living room, where Kristoph is sitting on the couch, head tilted back and looking too old and too young at the same time. Phoenix sets the mugs on the coffee table and sits down, just far enough from Kristoph to make things awkward, and when Kristoph leans down and lays his head on his lap, Phoenix wordlessly unties his hair and runs his fingers through it. They sit like this in silence for a while, Phoenix alternating between staring at the ceiling and focussing on the delicate curve of Kristoph's neck.

"You are working on something." Says Kristoph, "You're cracking a case."

Phoenix's hands stop moving in his hair, and he pulls them away to rest them like dead weights next to him on the couch.

"I've watched your videos," Kristoph continues, voice composed, "I've seen the way you look when you're onto something." He pauses for a long moment. "When you're only missing the final piece."

They both sit very still until Phoenix resumes his gentle stroking of Kristoph's hair.

"I'm not a lawyer anymore," Phoenix says measuredly, "I only ever bluffed anyway."

Kristoph opens his mouth to say something about how it's good to see him focussing, to see him being a lawyer again, but Phoenix leans down and kisses him, differently from in the car, and suddenly Kristoph is sitting up in his lap kissing him back and he can't remember why he thought Phoenix needed to be consoled on his skills as a lawyer anyway.

Phoenix's shirt is being yanked over his head by Kristoph's manicured hands when he suddenly pauses, and says, "I know you have the piece."

He barely reacts, continuing to yank the shirt over his head and latching his mouth onto Phoenix's collarbone. After a moment he kisses his way up to Phoenix's ear and murmurs, "I know that you know I do."

Afterward, they end up in the shower, Phoenix slumped miserably against the cold tile as Kristoph hogs the hot water to wash his hair.

"I gave Trucy the forgery." Kristoph says, almost casually.

Phoenix stares at the shampoo running out of Kristoph's hair. The rounded curve of his shoulder. The unguarded look in his eye.

"I got disbarred."

"You were very popular."

"I lost my fucking badge." Phoenix steps away from the shower wall closer to Kristoph, "They took my badge."

"How did you expect me to know that they'd crucify their golden boy over one mistake? I thought they'd slide it under the rug. You know how famous you were."

Phoenix gapes.

"You stood there and weighed your fucking options and made the calculated decision that I could handle a strike on my record? That they wouldn't love the opportunity to knock me down a peg?"

Kristoph runs conditioner through his hair, barely paying Phoenix any mind.

"You're so callous. Do you know that Kristoph? You're so, so, heartless."

"You don't come into my home after eating my food and spending my money for the past six fucking years and tell me I'm heartless." Kristoph is frozen now, hair forgotten. "I paid for your daughter's field trips and I-"

"You felt fucking guilty is what you did." He slumps back against the shower wall, slamming his hand against the tiled wall causing the bottles to topple onto the floor. "You ruined my life and then you came in to play hero and pick up the pieces because poor stupid Phoenix couldn't do it himself."

"They loved you. I thought they loved you."

"Even I know how fucking annoying I was to them. You're not a stupid man Kristoph."

Kristoph is silent at that. He rinses the conditioner out of his hair and turns off the water, stepping out and leaving Phoenix behind.

When Phoenix finally composes himself to leave, Kristoph is sitting in the living room on his couch, hair braided and cup of fresh coffee in his hand. Phoenix walks by him and puts on his shoes at the front door. He stands and stares at Kristoph for a long minute, before turning and facing the door.

"I was honest the entire time." He says, as though convincing himself.

"I know," comes Kristoph's quiet reply.

Phoenix stands there for another long moment and neither speaks when he finally opens the door and exits without another glance toward Kristoph.

* * *

Phoenix knowingly presents a forgery in court. Kristoph looks at him from the witness stand and understands that in his own way, he's trying to find justice. To make things right the only way he knows how. Understanding doesn't make his blood boil any less, and when Phoenix shrugs at him after the case and says, "I'm not a lawyer anymore" he honestly thinks he might kill him.

For weeks, he waits in his cell, knowing that Phoenix is too sentimental to not show up. How can he leave Kristoph here without coming to drag things out to their last breath the way he always does?

After four months, he begins to think of Phoenix's refusal to let things go and his habit of letting emotions get in the way as more endearing than annoying. Phoenix still doesn't arrive.

His letters get returned, unopened. He tells Klavier to let Phoenix know he's waiting, and yet Phoenix never shows up, eyes too honest and feelings too big.

Until he does.

And he's nervous and bearing his heart on his sleeve and when he hands him the jar of peanut butter Kristoph has never wanted to kill him more.

* * *

Three months after the prison visit, which Phoenix feels was too much and not enough and he hasn't said _anything_ he wanted to say - but then, what _is_ there to say? - the date is set.

He stares at Klavier, the bearer of the bad news, who suddenly looks extremely young and Phoenix feels horribly, coldly ashamed of how much he dislikes him.

Trucy must know, although he didn't tell her, because she puts on a cheap romcom and sits with Phoenix on the couch, eating pizza and only making fun of the kissing scenes once. After dinner she makes no move to go to bed and Phoenix doesn't make her. Instead they sit around and play go fish even though they both find it boring and drink hot chocolate with an unjustified amount of chocolate powder.

Later, if Trucy hears him sobbing in the kitchen holding the "World's Best Pianist" mug Kristoph bought him one Valentine's as a joke in poor taste, she doesn't mention it, and when she sees the pieces of it broken on the laminate in the morning she cleans them up without a word.

* * *

A few months before the date, Kristoph's calls and letters become more frantic, until in the two weeks before the execution they come almost twice daily. Klavier even braves his apartment multiple times to ask him - _beg him_ \- to go and see his brother.

Phoenix never goes.

Trucy doesn't comment, although she does place all Kristoph's letters on his desk, unopened, when they come in the mail. He puts them in the drawer dedicated to all things Kristoph, and makes a point to block them out of his mind.

* * *

The day of, Trucy skips school and the two of them sit on the couch and eat ice cream and watch The Notebook. When Phoenix starts sobbing halfway into the movie Trucy hands him another bag of pretzels and curls under his arm.

"It's okay," she says, "it's a sad movie."

* * *

Two days later, there's a folded slip of paper in the mailbox. _Phoenix_ is written on the front in Kristoph's neat capitals, and there's no envelope.

Phoenix takes it upstairs and stares at it for a long while. Eventually, he cries. He cries and aches and tries to convince himself that in his heart Kristoph knew that there was nothing either of them could say to fix it.

When it's almost time for Trucy to come home from school he gets up and squeezes his eyes shut as he shoves the note into his drawer. _Clean your fucking apartment,_ comes Kristoph's flippant insult, and that's exactly what he does.

Over dinner, he doesn't bring up the note to Trucy.

* * *

It's years before Phoenix cleans out the Kristoph drawer. He throws out bad memories and files new cases and paperwork instead. He feels a sick sense of relief in getting rid of seven years of bad faith.

The tiny slip of paper migrates to his pin-board, still folded.

* * *

Trucy's moved out of home by the time he reads the note. She's out on a tour around the country and Phoenix feels almost bad for missing her, for wanting her to be sitting at home with him instead of performing her dreams.

He's sprawled on the couch watching Bridget Jones' Diary eating peanut butter crackers, the way he always does when he misses Trucy, misses taking his teenage daughter to the movies and dropping her off three houses down from the party, when he decides he's ready.

The note, by now, has migrated to his bedside table.

He sits on his bed and swallows the lump in his throat as he stares at the still familiar block lettering of his name. He feels like he did back then, in the prison visitors room, and smiles a little at that.

"I'm still nervous." He says out loud.

Taking a deep breath, he unfolds the note.

"Fuck you," he breathes softly, tears pricking his eyes. He stands, and takes the note to pin it, open this time, on his office cork board.

* * *

 _Phoenix._

 _It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself._

 _Yours,_

 _Kristoph._


End file.
